Not Leaving Baker Street
by O'Donnell
Summary: 24 hours before A Study In Pink. Sherlock needs a new home - will a birthday card solve his problem?


Leave Baker Street And England Will Fall

Let's start at the very beginning - a very good place to start! A Study In Pink minus 24 hours. A birthday card brings a new life and direction to Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock, Mycroft, Mrs Hudson. Friendship/Comfort

The six inch square envelope was an alarming shade of electric blue. Mycroft Holmes twitched it with fastidious distaste from the inside pocket of his elegant suit jacket and skimmed it through the air towards his brother.

"This came for you," Mycroft intoned only after the envelope had left his hand, and was mildly irritated as his brother, revealing much faster physical reactions than his own, lifted a languid hand and effortlessly caught it in mid flight.

"Birthday card," Sherlock said before even looking at it. "Is it early or late?"

Mycroft ignored the question, watched a smile almost lift the corners of Sherlock's mouth as he saw and recognised the handwriting, opened the card - shiny red balloons with 'Happy Birthday' inscribed upon them - and read the inscription within and the signature, palmed the short note on pale blue Basildon Bond enclosed with it into his pocket.

The card and the electric blue envelope hit the back of the fire almost as soon as they had reached his hand and both men, sitting either side of the fireplace of Mycroft's home in London's fashionable South Eaton Place, watched the paper flare and furl into ash.

"She always sends birthday and Christmas cards to me to forward to you," Mycroft commented. "Do you ever send any in return?"

"She does not know where I live from one greetings card to the next but is determined to stay in touch," Sherlock explained, ignoring the other part of the question. _Really, Mycroft, What a stupid question!_ "When she demanded my address I was - ah - dossing down in a janitor's cupboard in a multi storey car park at the time. Couldn't explain that. So I gave her your address instead."

He was amused to hear Mycroft tut at that, and smiled.

"Well, dear brother, now we are planning a proper permanent home for you, with a proper flat mate and all, you will be able to tell her where you really live, and relieve me of the irritating responsibility of being your _poste restante"_

Sherlock ignored the various barbs delivered in that statement. But when Mycroft turned away from him to answer the summons of his telephone, he was able to read the little note from the card unobserved.

 _Dear Sherlock,_

 _Sending your card via Mycroft as usual. Haven't seen you for ages, but hope you are well and happy. Visit sometime, I would be so pleased to see you and catch up on old times._

 _I am well. Feel I must say that often at my age just to reassure everyone! Especially since long term tenant Mr Margolis died. Rattling around this big house all on my own now. But very peaceful so I don't mind!_

 _Fond wishes,_

 _Mrs Martha Hudson._

Trite, but at least short, Sherlock thought, scanning the predictable words and noting the formal signature. She had never really known how to sign her duty cards to him.

'Martha' seemed too informal, she insisted, while the very idea of using the simple initials MH had made her laugh and say she didn't want to be confused with the other MH, thanks very much. Sherlock had snorted at that, and pointed out that his brother never sent him birthday or Christmas cards, so there was no chance of any confusion whatsoever, which had worried Mrs Hudson more than a little.

The offhand addition of : "Well, I don't send him cards either" did not help. She had frowned and positively clucked at him, and muttered something about 'family are all we have at the end of the day, Sherlock Holmes' and glared.

She had never seemed scared or affronted by him, like so many people, and he was oddly moved by that fact - if he admitted ever thinking about it - so they had remained in contact, even after he provided the evidence that ensured her violent husband was executed in Florida for double murder, after both of them, survivors of that difficult time, had returned to England.

More than anyone he was aware how much the simple elderly exterior of Martha Hudson was just that - the very ordinary facade she presented to the world, whilst inside beat a loyal heart driving a cleverer brain than she would ever admit to having.

The elderly woman and the eccentric young man seemed an unlikely alliance, but the dark collision of circumstances that threw them together in America years ago, and how they had so matter of factly saved each others lives, seemed the stuff of fiction.

So they never referenced their united past, and if anyone presumed to ask how they knew each other both would shrug, vaguely murmur something about knowing each other for years. And if people then assumed Martha had been a family parlour maid, or even nanny - reflecting the age and social gulf between them, their incongruous mutual affection - both were secretly content and quietly amused .

"You seem _very_ interested in your little note from Mrs Hudson," Mycroft observed, reappearing silently and unexpectedly and reading over Sherlock's shoulder as he finished his call "How very sentimental of you."

"Not at all, brother mine," Sherlock flickered a look at his older brother. "We may have a solution to my accommodation problem."

oo00oo

Martha Hudson had not been expecting visitors that night, but the hammering on the front door of 221B, Baker Street was urgent and loud, and impelled her along the hallway, tea towel still in hand.

Early evening was the time for religious fanatics, double glazing salesmen and kitchenware hawkers to invade her doorstep, and she was used to seeing them off. But the figure standing outside her door was none of these things.

A tall man stood there, presenting a hawk like silhouette in waisted long black coat with a high collar up and masking the face, a cascade of dark curls above, hands thrust deep into pockets. Close up and now directly in front of her as he turned to the opened door, deep eyes burned down from an impassive striking face of sharp angles and unusual androgynous beauty.

The man did not smile or speak but stood and waited, as if unsure of his welcome.

Yet Martha Hudson did not hesitate.

She stepped forward, reaching up to fling her arms around the slim shoulders and to hug the man tight and close in to her. Felt him flinch and lift his head away from her kiss.

"Sherlock Holmes! How dare you freeze like that when you see me! I know you far too well for that, young man!" She gripped the shoulders harder now, and shook them.

The man relaxed immediately in response, huffed a low laugh, ...and his features softened, became youthful and less daunting.

"That's better!" Martha Hudson almost giggled at him. Kissed his cheeks then his mouth properly now, breathed in his expensive cologne, cupping the hard angles of that face with her free hand, the one not holding the tea towel.

"It's _so_ lovely to see you! Such a wonderful surprise! Come in, come in…." she stepped backwards, ushering him forwards, taking him by the hand so he could not change his mind. Because he looked, to her, as if he was ready to run away at any minute. And from her, of all people!

She regarded him properly then, assessing him as they walked along the hallway hand in hand, through the door into the cosy little kitchen of her ground floor flat. Noticed the weight loss since she had last seen him, the shadows under his eyes, the hard line of that unusually beautiful mouth, the dull pallor of his skin. There was a new maturity behind those striking opal eyes, but veins stood out on his too thin hands.

And he still had not spoken to her.

"Sit down, Sherlock, sit down. Let me make you a cup of tea. And a slice of lemon drizzle cake? Your favourite as well as mine!"

He laughed then, allowing himself to be pushed down into a chair at the old kitchen table, resting his elbows when she finally released his hand. He watched her bustle about with kettle and teapot, cake tin and plates. She cut him a generous slice of yellow cake and put it in front of him, then stood looking down into his face as they waited for the kettle to boil.

"You look awful," she said simply.

He had been suffering her unwelcome scrutiny with stoicism but now looked up at her sharply, as if shocked at both the observation and the honesty. Looked away from the sharp old eyes. Finally he said:

"I've…been ill. In hospital.

"But you're all right now? Not drugs?"

"No, not drugs, Mrs Hudson. And I'm on the mend. Really."

His eyes met hers, and he allowed himself to smile at her. Not the bright artificial smile she knew so well - his madman smile, as she called it - but a quiet, warm and rarely bestowed smile that went into his eyes and lingered, which filled her heart with an almost maternal glow.

"Good. That's good, isn't it? Your brother must be so pleased!"

"Absolutely delighted," Sherlock agreed drily, and she laughed at him then, rumpling his already tousled hair as if he was a little boy before turning away to brew the tea as the kettle hummed.

"You got my note?" she asked into the Sherlock shaped sort of silence that made her awkward, but he never noticed nor thought to fill. "With your birthday card?"

"Yes. I always get your notes," he said.

"But you never reply," she pointed out tartly.

He wriggled his shoulders in a characteristic movement, dipped his head.

"I'm replying now," he said. "I'm here."

"And…..?" she prompted.

And she watched him revert to the awkward boy he had mostly been when she had first known him, avoiding her eyes, softly opening and closing his mouth unable to find the right words, displaying all the social difficulty she knew could trip him up at the most difficult moments.

She stretched a hand across the table and put her tiny hand over his lean, capable one. He was shaking gently, and she hated to see him like that, distressed by the simple everyday things of life that most people took for granted. Especially when she knew how brave he was. How strong and decisive and, yes, protective. And so much a hero to everyone but himself. And took pity on him.

"What do you want, Sherlock? What can I do for you?"

She wanted to ask him what was wrong, what had brought him to her door like this, why he was so upset yet also so determined. But she knew him better than that. She knew that to ask would upset him or drive him away, and she didn't want either of those things. It was enough that he had let her touch him, and that simple contact made her bold.

"You have a vacant flat. You said so in your letter."

" I have three vacant flats," she corrected. "I've never managed to let the basement flat - it's damp. The upstairs flat had students and really needs a refit. The best flat is the first floor flat where Mr Margolis lived.

"He was here when I inherited the house, and he stayed. He was a nice man - nice but distant. Taught languages at the local comp., then private tutoring when he retired. Died at his daughter's six months ago. She came and stripped out all his stuff. And I just haven't had the heart to bother advertising it again somehow. I don't really need the money with my Frank's investments to live on" - she didn't say 'slush fund' or 'ill gotten gains' to Sherlock, because he knew all that anyway - "so I just left it, really."

Sherlock was listening, nodding.

"Are you trying to tell me you are interested in the flat, Sherlock?" she encouraged gently.

"Would that be a problem, Mrs Hudson?"

He sounded tentative and uncertain. As if her answer was important - more than important. She frowned at that thought. It was only a flat, and London was full of them.

"Sherlock, dear…..?"

He shook his head, interrupting the concern in her voice and her eyes.

"I need somewhere to live, Mrs Hudson. Quite urgently, actually."

She nodded, urging him to continue.

"Time I behaved like a grown up," he said, and she could hear those very words as if coming from his brother's mouth. And wondered. "Took myself in hand. Became a proper consulting detective with a website, private clients, an address good enough to bring people to and actually consult at. Somewhere handy, and central and safe. Somewhere that can be home."

"You mean _my_ flat?"

"You mentioned it in your note. I thought you might have….been suggesting…..offering…."

"It never crossed my mind!" she exclaimed, shocked. But then she thought about it. And liked the idea.. "It was just…something to tell you; a little bit of harmless chat to put in a note."

She saw his face fall and realised suddenly how important this was to him, and changed tack.

"But, Sherlock - it's a wonderful idea! I would love to have you here, in the flat."

She saw almost childlike hope flash into his eyes and then be consciously quelled.

"How much?" he asked.

She mentioned a sum, just what Mr Margolis had been paying, and panicked a bit when she saw him look down and frown. Did he actually have any idea about money? Of relative financial figures? Could he afford it?"

"A special deal for you, Sherlock. Because I owe you so much, my dear…"

"You owe me nothing, Mrs Hudson."

The iron in his soul returned to the surface, his refusal to allow her to feel in his debt. Something within him he called being a sociopath and she called being unselfish.

"Sherlock…." she hesitated, looked straight into his eyes with courage and determination, because she knew that most people did not dare to look into those unfathomable eyes that could be as cold and grey as a winter's sea, "If it hadn't been for you - for all you did for me - I wouldn't have this house or this life. I would not be a respectable quiet widow in comfortable retirement. I would be the penniless widow of a convicted murderer and drug dealer, stuck with a dark reputation and lost in America. And let me tell you, Sherlock Holmes, I am so proud and so very grateful for this ordinary little life you gave to me!"

There! She had said it now! She been wanting to say all that to him for years, but had never had the chance. To try to make Sherlock understand how much she owed him, had needed him and had never found him wanting, loved him for it as if he was the son she had never had.

He looked at her then as if she was speaking a foreign language; giving her that laser look of his, deducing her, deciding whether he dared believe what she said was true.

"You don't have to look at me like that, young man!" she reprimanded, and he shook his head as if breaking water and coming up into air.

"There will be a flatmate…." he murmured.

"Ooh! Lovely!" she enthused, grinning at him, clapping her hands. "A girlfriend? Just one bedroom, then?"

Was Sherlock Holmes actually - truly - blushing? She really did giggle at him then, and he looked at her blank and embarrassed. And, she thought, a little shy. Bless the boy!

She had always wondered who Sherlock really was; what he was. Sometimes she thought she knew him through and through. But she knew she was fooling herself about that, because of her affection for him. She knew in her heart, but never admitted, that no-one really knew Sherlock Holmes, not even his frankly terrifying older brother..

His complexity was an eternal puzzle to her, his reticence impenetrable. She had never dared intrude upon that privacy and ask him about his heart, and, despite all her own rich life experiences, simply could not tell. He could not, and would not, be read, even by someone he trusted in the way she knew he trusted her.

He was so mentally and physically strong, so dangerous, so brave and masculine in his thoughts and attitudes and actions, that he was undeniably and unprepossessingly male. And yet sometimes he was so stilled, so full of intuition, with the light playing on his face in a certain way, or as he turned and moved with the most effortless grace, he appeared unique, almost feminine, somehow alien in ways that were indefinable yet totally Sherlock.

Martha Hudson understood how men as well as women found him beautiful, charismatic, arrogant and ethereal all at once and were captivated by his intellect and unknowable spirit. To fathom that depth they wanted to share his mind, his heart and his bed. Martha Hudson understood that. Even if Sherlock did not notice such interest in himself or would care about it if he did.

He showed no need for relationships of any sort, but was himself alone. But she knew more than perhaps anyone else the real man beneath and behind those unassailable barriers of his personality, and knew Sherlock Holmes to be utterly himself and totally unique, and that any flatmate -male or female - would need to recognise and understand this and not be frightened by it to live within his orbit.

"Not a girlfriend," he said flatly, and she was disappointed.

"A boyfriend, then?"

"No." he sighed. " Just a flatmate."

"And something inside Mrs Hudson died a little at that. Because she was a romantic at heart and whether he drew a male or female companion to his side, she knew she wanted the best for her Sherlock. And that did not just mean success, or acclaim, or peace of mind, but the simpler and harder wish for him - to draw him out of his isolation, to find someone who would love him for himself.

To fill his empty heart, feed his spirit, accompany him on adventures, give him succour and support and be someone for him to just laugh and relax with at the end of a day. To end the bone wearying loneliness she always sensed in him.

"That's OK, Sherlock. There is a second bedroom upstairs, and it will be a simple thing to make two small flats into one large one."

He nodded.

"It will be lovely _\- lovely_ \- to have you here. Drink your tea and eat you cake, and then I will show you round."

o0o0o

"Mrs Hudson! Mrs Hudson! It's me!"

Twenty four hours later he bounced into 221B like an overgrown puppy. All swirling greatcoat and floppy scarf, eyes shining, arms full of boxes. A taxi sat outside, clock quietly ticking, as he emptied boxes and carrier bags like a torrent onto her doorstep.

Books, music, chemistry equipment, a Bunsen burner and retorts, a violin case…she laughed at this because he was laughing, and between them they hauled his strange collection of belongings up the stairs and into the flat.

"Sherlock Holmes! Is that a skull?"

She pointed at the offending object, which Sherlock had just placed firmly on the mantelpiece.

"Friend of mine. You don't mind, do you?"

"Hmn," she said. "Is that the flatmate? Because if it is, I shall turn him into gravy stock. You have been warned!"

He laughed again then, touched her arm, and she was delighted yet moved. It was rare for him to touch anyone, and hardly ever of his own volition.

"Flatmate! Yes, a flatmate! I think I have found us a flatmate, Mrs Hudson." he continued babbling at her, spinning in small circles around the sitting room, full of almost childlike enthusiasm. "His name is John - friend of a friend - war veteran - seems…." he sought and struggled to find a word. "…..nice." Paused, frowned at finding and choosing a word he would never normally use, nor had been expecting to pop out, but then decided it would do, and continued.

"He's coming to look at the flat tomorrow at seven; I'm meeting him here. Think it will just be a formality. Will that be OK? "

"Of course, silly! May as well get everything sorted." She smiled at him encouragingly. "You bring the rest of your stuff up and I will put some things away."

She put books on shelves, chemistry kit into vacant cupboards, carrier bags of clothes in the bedroom, humming little secret smiles to herself..

He returned with a final corn flakes box filled with scientific equipment clutched to his chest.

"Let me show you round…." she said. "Look: I've a new fridge freezer, stove, washing machine," she said, opening doors, waving instruction booklets. " New cutlery and crockery and stuff. Seemed best to make a fresh start for you. So these are all yours, all brand shiny new….."

She raced around the kitchen on a wave of domestic delight, demonstrating how to work the electrical goods, the central heating boiler, the new scales and stick blender.

It took her a long time to realise that Sherlock was silent somewhere behind her, and she turned to see. He was still standing on the hearth rug in front of the fireplace, clutching the box, staring at the floor like a toy whose batteries had run down, overwhelmed by it all, she realised.

"Sherlock?" she said. He seemed not to hear her, so she walked across and stood right in front of him. "Sherlock! Have you heard anything I have said?"

He flickered a look at her and began to quietly recite what she had said word for word, until she put a hand to his lips and said: "Enough." So he stopped.

"Put the box down, Sherlock."

He turned from the hips, put the box down on the nearest chair without actually moving and stood facing her again, arms at his sides, head down, just waiting.

She sighed. Only Sherlock could be defeated by a stick blender and a washing machine dial. She wanted to tell him he would be fine. That he belonged here. That he was not intruding on her privacy or her generosity by coming to her. That needing a place to live was not an admission of weakness. That she did not resent him asking, that she would welcome him - and his flatmate, whoever that turned out to be - with love and friendship and support. Cups of tea, warm scones, shopping lists and emptied bins, just whatever was needed.

Because she truly understood what a test this was for him: being out in the world, doing the very ordinary things ordinary people did without thinking, finding a home and shelter and being settled and grounded and responsible for his own life and how he affected other people. Without running away when the ordinary things of life overtook him, without endlessly moving on, but finally accepting a home base and responsibilities to be tied to.

She understood the situation. She understood - as well as anyone ever could - her Sherlock. She would be his friend, his landlady and his hearth and home. She would answer his door, remind him to eat, welcome his friends - like that nice, ever so handsome Greg Lestrade - even those strange scruffy homeless friends of his. She would keep the world and the wolf from his door, if needed. She would care for him, from close up or afar. Whatever he needed. And she would never care how much he shouted and niggled and drove her mad with his obsessions and his night time pacing, his strange behaviours. Because she knew what he was really like, what he really was.

So she stepped close to him, put her arms around him, kissed his cheeks and nuzzled that frozen unresponsive face as he looked with haunted eyes over the precipice into a new life. Hugged him tight, trying to hug the coldness and the tension from his limbs.

"It will be OK, Sherlock, really it will."

"I know," he whispered so softly she scarcely heard him. "Thank you, Mrs Hudson."

For three glorious, wonderful seconds he put his arms around her and hugged her back, hugged awkwardly and so hard the breath was squeezed out of her.

He put her away from him then, made a low noise in his throat that could have been a laugh or a sob and was in truth a combination of both, and he was gone.

She heard him running down the seventeen stairs, take six long strides down the hall, and then the front door slammed hard shut and bounced on it's hinges behind him. The air in his wake almost hummed with his electricity. She smiled, shook her head and bent to unpack a box.

Sherlock had a home. Life was going to be exciting again!

END


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